


I Thought You Were Gone

by margaerytvrell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, GoT season 7 setting, Slow Burn, Spoilers, bc we need more sansaery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaerytvrell/pseuds/margaerytvrell
Summary: Margaery Tyrell left the Sept of Baelor just before it was blown up and flees to Winterfell where she knew Sansa Stark would be.





	1. Chapter 1

Margaery knew that black didn't suit her quite well—perhaps that's why she only had one dress with that color. Black was more Targaryen than Tyrell after all, and she was the latter. She mostly wore green or light blue, both with traces of gold and embellished with rose pins. But now it was a cloth of black that draped over her body from head to toe. A cloth of black that didn't really help with the cold. However, it wasn't the time to think over which clothing suited her best or to even complain about her attire that was unfit for the weather. She wasn't the queen anymore and her life was at stake— _for the second time._

It was a month long journey from King's Landing, introducing herself as someone else outside of the capital as to not get recognized. It was her first time to be alone out in the world. It was the first time that she ever felt vulnerable, making sure that she didn't draw any attention to herself. If word leaked that Margaery Tyrell had escaped the Sept of Baelor, she knew that Cersei would make sure to have her head on a spike in a fortnight.

Margaery wasn't going to give Cersei that satisfaction, if she was ever going to find out that Margaery has been alive this whole time. She almost did though—being the one to foolishly occupy too much of herself with the High Sparrow than she should have. It was a miscalculation on Margaery's part and she hasn't forgiven herself for it. She almost lost her life because of that mistake. Cersei thought that she won, but Margaery still lives. Her hunger for power, however, did not burn as brightly as it once did. She wasn't thinking about that at the moment. After all that had happened, the wildfire and the smoke, the loss of a brother and a father, there she stood, just outside of Winterfell. The last place she thought to be.

It was as tall and as grand as they said during her lectures as she was growing up. It was a fortified stronghold that didn't fail to make her feel small and insignificant all of a sudden. It probably had that effect on anyone who sets foot on it for the very first time. It was far more brooding than Highgarden, she thought. And this was where _she_ grew up.

Margaery felt the cold reach her spine. She had never been this far up north before. It was as Sansa had mentioned once though, about the cold—how it always got to her as well when she was young, more so now that winter is here. This was a desperate move for Margaery; to find refuge in a home where she only heard tales of, to find comfort in a girl she hadn't seen for the longest time—the _girl_ who once meant so much to her. But it was the only thing left in mind to do if Margaery ever wished to survive.

“Sansa...” She sighs under her breath.

Margaery was possibly just a few feet away from the girl she had hidden away in memory long ago. And yet at that moment, everything came to her in flashbacks: the afternoon strolls in the gardens, Sansa's smile, the rose, _the kiss._ Everything she thought she had long forgotten. But all she could do was let them resurface once more, realizing how perfect everything was once, only to have them worlds apart now, even as Margaery stood outside Sansa's home.

Margaery wondered for a moment how Sansa would look like by now; and how Sansa would greet the older female with her red hair and freckles and all. Was she going to see the same girl she met years ago? The one who smiles at the thought of lemon cakes and trips to Highgarden; the one who'd let Margaery hold her hand as they walked together; the one who blushed and felt embarrassed about the 'porridge plague' story; the one who was so sweet and gentle and bashful and caring; the one who made Margaery forget that she ever wanted to be queen at one point; but also the one who had enough pain to last a lifetime; the one whose tears flowed so easily—so fragile, and so naïve; the girl that Margaery wanted to protect, and take care of, and love— _but chose not to._ There was so much of their past that she wanted to forget. But as Margaery was stepping closer to the gates of Winterfell, she knew that she was also stepping closer to the past—closer to the girl she once loved.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“A lovely day for it—watching the snow.”

There it was again—that all too familiar accent. It echoed through the walls of the throne room or anywhere in the Red Keep for that matter. It may be tucked in between exchange of lies with Cersei or Varys, but Sansa heard it all the same.

He who witnessed her grow up in King's Landing with those mysterious looking eyes and that mockingbird pin, raised Sansa in a way, only to make her realize that he was not to be trusted at all. No one else knew him the way Sansa did. She knew exactly what he wanted and his variety of schemes to get to where he wanted to be. Not that she had an ounce of care for it, especially at that moment. Sansa's mind had drifted off elsewhere.

“Lord Baelish,” She finally answers, not even glancing as to where the voice came from.

Littlefinger stood right next to her. Sansa saw this through her peripheral, even noticing the pair of eyes that were watching her. She stood still, carrying herself like the lady she was born to be. His presence didn't bother her _that_ much, but she most definitely preferred to be consumed by his absence.

“I heard that a raven flew in from the capital.” He spoke once more.

“You don't have to bother yourself with it, Lord Baelish. It had nothing to do with you.”

Sansa sensed that it was starting to be a struggle for him, to get to her the way he used to. She wasn't the girl she was years ago—completely naïve, a play thing for Joffrey to torment, the one who had wasted her youth in the capital. She was a collection of scars that resound with every breath she drew, even as she stood watching the snow fall to the ground. So much had happen between then and now. Littlefinger knew this and could only ponder as to how he could use it to his advantage... if only Sansa trusted him.

He remains silent. There was nothing to say—or at least he didn't have anything clever in mind at the moment. Sansa wasn't _that_ gullible, not anymore.

“Something about Cersei, I suppose.” He manages to answer.

“The whole lot of them, really.” It came out as a spat pass Sansa's lips. “I'm sure you know the mad king, Lord Baelish.” She decides to continue. He would have found out elsewhere anyway.

“Everyone knows the mad king.”

“Apparently he stored caches of wildfire underneath the Great Sept of Baelor.” Sansa looked at Littlefinger for the first time ever since his arrival, as if in disbelief with her own statement.

He noticed the sudden rush of fear in her eyes, as if it was something she couldn't imagine seeing in front of her. But the reaction faded as he checked her features again. Their eyes were locked together for a moment and Sansa knew that she didn't have to elaborate in order for him to understand the content of the letter.

“The scroll said it was an accident.” She mentions.

“An _accident._ ” He repeats. The use of the word was comical in a sense. Only something Cersei would use to conceal the obvious. A sad attempt, to Littlefinger's mind. “I suppose there were people of great importance during this terrible tragedy.”

An image of a smile—of a _girl_ quickly became vivid in Sansa's mind. She felt the ache in her chest.

“The Tyrells.” She answered. “Except Lady Olenna. Perhaps she was in Highgarden at that time. And Tommen threw himself off the window shortly afterwards. He wasn't in the Sept at that time.”

“Cersei—always manages to eradicate those who are in her way.”

“I don't expect anything less from her.”

“And queen Margaery... I never thought she would have fallen into her trap. She was clever. She got what she wanted—at least for a while...”

Sansa shifted her gaze to look at him.

“... To be the queen.”

The Stark girl couldn't respond to this. Too many events had spun in her head whenever Margaery's name resurfaced; events she intends to repress. She instead reverts her eyes back to the falling snow.

“Such a tragedy.” He comes up with instead.

“Like so many other tragedies.”

“My lady—”

“What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

Sansa was reminded of a more recent conversation that they had in the godswood. The memory made her regret asking. She knew what he wanted and she was getting sick of hearing it. His presence bothered her after all.

“What do I want? I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

“I am safe,” she says. “I have Brienne to protect me from anyone who would harm me.”

“What about happy? Why aren't you happy?””

 _How could she be_ , Sansa thought.

“What do you want that you do not have?”

_It didn't matter anymore._

“Lady Sansa, at the gate!” A bannerman shouted.

Even before Littlefinger could follow up, Sansa responds, “Lord Baelish, as acting lord of the Vale I'm sure there are numerous concerns that require your attention. Why don't you attend to them?”

“My lady,” he bows in defeat just before Sansa left his presence, following the bannerman that called her attention.

Little finger observes Sansa from the deck. He noticed it to be quite odd—why Sansa was the one being summoned when Jon, the King in the North, was in Winterfell. It was probably someone who knew Sansa more than Jon—perhaps someone from the capital. Maybe someone that could serve his cause—someone who could contribute to his schemes. Littlefinger decided to follow Sansa without being noticed. It was just out of pure curiosity, who this person might be.

“Who is it?” Sansa asks.

“I don't know, my lady. She doesn't seem to be a northerner.” He answers, as the pair continued walking towards the gates.

“A woman?” Sansa pondered. “Why isn't Jon receiving her at the gates?”

“She was looking for a Lady Sansa, my lady. She says you know her.”

Who could it possibly be? Anyone who possibly wasn't in the Sept at the time of the wildfire explosion.

Adorned with nothing but a black cape draped over the mysterious figure, Sansa couldn't identify her still, at least from afar. Until the woman turns her head upon hearing the footsteps of the redhead.

“Sansa...” she says, almost tearing up.

With lips parting in disbelief, Sansa froze.

_Margaery..._

Littlefinger observed the two ladies close by. It began to unravel in his mind—his new plot. The corner of his lips lift up, forming a smirk just before he utters:

“Margaery...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever i'm so sorry :((


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa felt the snow fall slower than it normally did, or perhaps it just felt like time has slowed down for the young Stark. Her eyes could have deceived her, but the girl that stood in front of her remained still and not out of her sight when Sansa blinked once more. The redhead stood like a block of ice as she stared at Margaery. She seemed to be the epitome of winter. The one she thought was long gone, was there by the gates. Perhaps the gods weren't that cruel after all. But Sansa stopped praying long ago.

Margaery shouldn't be there. Sansa read the scroll as accurate as she could—the Great Sept of Baelor was now in ashes with everyone in it. So how could this be? But it didn't matter to her at that moment. Littlefinger's recent questions started to resound in her head, with answers she could now profess with a contented heart.

_What about happy? Why aren't you happy?_

_**I thought she was gone.** _

_What do you want that you do not have?_

_**She's here now.** _

This wasn't a possible eventuality and yet Margaery stood before her—alive and well, and also freezing. Sansa finally noticed the shivery breaths Margaery drew, which only made her wrap the smaller girl in her arms as quick as she could.

Margaery, overwhelmed with the warmth, not from the thicker clothing that wrapped around her, but from Sansa's presence, felt the tears well up in her eyes. It terrified her how much she missed Sansa, after failed attempts of denying to herself before that she did.

“I had nowhere else to go...” Margaery says.

“It's alright. You're safe here.”

 

-

 

“I'm sure this looks grim compared to what you're used to.”

Winter is here and the bed chambers seemed to have adapted to it. For Sansa, someone from the south might consider it as uninviting. But if Margaery had to describe the bed chambers with one word, _grim_ wouldn't be it.

What was grim for Margaery was the cell that she was locked in before. It was cramped and it was cold, not to mention wet. The absence of furniture made it all the more difficult, only to have Margaery's back rest against the corners of the cell as she slept; only to be woken up by a loud slam of the door whenever Septa Unella would come in and read the passages from the seven pointed star _at_ her. Years would have passed by without her knowing if it weren't for the small window that had let light in during the day. Margaery hated it—having to beg for a sip of water or to ask if her brother was okay and Septa Unella said the same thing over and over again: **Confess**. Whenever she got fed up and vocalized that she's the queen and started making demands, she would always end up getting hit. That was cruel.

But Margaery didn't plan on bringing that up. It was something she knew Sansa was not aware of, and Sansa shouldn't trouble herself with it.

“It's more than enough, _sweet girl_ —I mean,” Margaery freezes and Sansa did too.

It came out naturally pass Margaery's lips. _Sweet girl._ Sansa was always her sweet girl. But after everything that had happened between them in the past, Margaery knew the pet name would not be welcomed, only to make Margery dip her head slightly in embarrassment.

Sansa hadn't heard that in years. It always sounded like a purr when it rolled off of Margaery's tongue. Sansa liked it before—always wanted to hear it. She felt wanted... by Margaery. For a time, it was all that mattered.

But that was years ago. A time when Sansa was young and naïve, the girl who wasn't a player in the game. Now she was completely different, someone that Margaery might not even recognize if she were to get to know her all over again.

But Sansa didn't change.

She just grew up.

“Forgive me.” Margaery continued.

“It's alright.” A quick reply, as if Sansa was brushing it off. “I'm sure you'd like to get settled in first. I'll have handmaidens come in to help with everything you need.”

“I'm sorry if I bothered you, you must be busy—”

“You're not a bother,” Sansa interrupts. “You never were...” A soft tone—then there was silence.

“I would have to let Jon know you're here. He's the King in the North.”

Margaery nods.

“I'll let you get settled in then.”

 

–

 

“How is she?”

“She seems to be doing well.”

“I suppose—you're going to let the King in the North become aware of this recent visit?”

“Where do you think I'm heading now?”

Sansa was filled with questions she did not ask: _How did she escape without Cersei knowing? Is lady Olenna aware that she's alive? What happened in the Sept exactly?_ Sansa didn't have the time nor the energy to accommodate Littlefinger even as they walked together to the great hall. The only way she knew how was to shut him out. But it didn't appear to work this time, as if he had something clever to say.

“If she plans to utilize Jon's army alone, it might not be enough.”

“What are you talking about?” Sansa asks, obviously confused.

Littlefinger smirks at this, as he already thought that Sansa would be unprepared for the notion. “I'm sure _Queen_ Margaery plans on retaking the crown. She's the rightful queen after all, now that Tommen is gone.”

Sansa considers this for a moment. Although Margaery had not discussed any of her intentions, what Littlefinger suggested didn't seem to be too far off for what may happen in the future. The pair had spoken about Margaery once or twice back in the Eyrie. He mentioned how Margaery wanted to be _the_ queen. Even convincing Sansa somehow that it was all just an act—Margaery's kindness and charm. It was her way to get to where she wanted to be, and she did.

Sansa, on the other hand, didn't want to believe any of it, even when it seemed to make sense. If Margaery had manipulated her way to be the queen, she didn't want to think of herself as a pawn in the queen's game. She knew Margaery wanted her once, wanted to love her, wanted to be with her. But she chose the crown over Sansa. She made it clear on the night before she was wed to Joffrey; that she cannot let her feelings for the young Stark get in the way with her being the queen. Margaery's words left Sansa heartbroken.

She carried that with her during Joffrey's wedding feast, when she was at the Eyrie, even when she married Ramsay. Littlefinger always noticed the change on Sansa's expression whenever Margaery's name was mentioned. He knew she loved her, even without Sansa saying a word. Her eyes spoke for itself. Margaery was her weakness. And her presence in Winterfell was enough to let his plot run back in motion.

“And why should I discuss her plans with you?” Sansa asks.

“Because I want to help you. We could never be sure of one's motives. Her presence here in Winterfell—I'm sure Cersei will make an enemy of you.”

“As if she had any love for me before.” She glances up at him momentarily. “Margaery saved me once, by marrying Joffrey.”

“And I had him poisoned, to protect you—to save you.”

“And you sold me to the Boltons—or have you forgotten about that too, Lord Baelish?”

Silence.

“I don't think you're in the position to tell me what intentions she may have.”

“You're right,” he pauses.

“Perhaps Queen Margaery could tell you herself.”

Sansa let the idea sink in. But she wasn't sure if wanted to know, even when Littlefinger had suggested it.

For once she wanted to believe that Margaery was no longer consumed with thoughts of being the queen, of gaining control and having power. For once, she wanted to think that Margaery wasn't using her manipulative skills to get what she wanted. For once, she wanted Margaery not wanting the crown. But Sansa knew that might be far from the truth. She didn't want to set her hopes high on the thought of Margaery wanting things differently by now. It was all what Margaery wanted before. The reason why she married king after king, manipulated her way to get to where she wanted.

“Jon must know she's here first.” She answers.

“Oh, yes. The King in the North must know.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you saying she's alive?”

“She's settling in as we speak.”

A sigh.

Jon probably got the brooding nature from the Stark family — from Ned Stark to be exact, or so everyone thought. He already had too much going on in his mind — the long night for one, and the raven from Dragonstone he has yet to tell Sansa about. Now with this additional information of the _rightful_ queen being alive this entire time and was currently in their lands was something he still had to process.

“Your grace, might you want to speak to her yourself?” Ser Davos intervenes as he took a step closer to the king in the north, noticing that neither Jon nor Sansa had anything left to say. Jon looks at his right hand man, considering the suggestion.

“What do you think we should do?” Jon asks, looking back at Sansa; it was important to him that Sansa would have a say about the matter. Margaery was her _friend_ after all, and knew her better than he and Ser Davos do. Jon had already kept note of what happened during the battle of the bastards; the lack of communication almost destroyed them. They were family. He needed Sansa, and Sansa needed him. They needed each other.

Sansa, on the other hand, who lately had an opinion on anything and everything could not find the words in her. “I-I don't know,” she comes up with instead.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't know where to go from here. As someone who was starting to become the lady of Winterfell, Jon found Sansa's reaction quite odd. She started to look as if she was a child again — confused and bothered. It might have been because Margaery was someone Sansa knew personally, but other than that, Jon didn't think too much about it. But the fact that Sansa didn't have an answer surprised him.

“Then I suppose I'll go speak with her now. Ser Davos, if you will.” Jon ends before he makes his way out of the great hall with Ser Davos following him, leaving Sansa startled.

“Can't you wait until later? She's resting.” Sansa turns just in time to meet Jon in the eyes.

“You have to trust me on this one, Sansa.”

 

–

 

“Lady Margaery, I was hoping if we could speak first.” Jon speaks up against the door, just outside Margaery's chamber.

Margaery shuffles closer and opens the door wide enough for the two to make their way inside.

“Greetings, m'lady. My name is Ser Davos Seaworth. This is Jon Snow, the king in the no—”

“Sansa's brother.” Jon cuts in, making sure to smile at the lady before him.

 _Pretty,_ he thinks. But not the typical pretty southerner you'd conventionally see down at King's Landing. Jon had never been in the capital, but he could already tell what southerners from the capital would look like. Robert and Cersei had visited them before. They reeked of wine and other lavish things—things that fancied people like them, growing up with the privilege. It didn't suit Jon's style. Their lifestyle was different. So he had expected a personality of that sort when he would be facing Margaery, but to his surprise, she wasn't even close. She stood like royalty, of course, obviously high born and of noble birth. There was a certain warmth to her, a bit fragile, but mostly broken. But that could have all been seen now that Margaery wasn't adorned with anything extravagant but a smile the crept on her face.

Jon wasn't so bad himself, Margaery thought. He had never seen any of the other Starks other than Sansa. He might have been a bastard all his life but Margaery could already tell that Jon was fit to be a king. More so than she could say about her deceased husbands.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lady.” Jon speaks up once more.

It was quite an awkward situation, considering that both of them held titles in their own right — Margaery being the queen of the seven kingdoms while Jon was the king in the north. He wasn't going to give up the title that quickly, especially that everyone in the north rallied behind him and recognized him as the king. They weren't going to bow to a southerner ruler again.

“Thank you for the welcome, your grace,” Margaery curtseys with no hint of hesitation.

“Forgive me, my lady. I know that you are a friend of Sansa's and the queen but other than that, I really don't know much about you—”

“House Tyrell aided the Lannister forces in the battle of blackwater.” Ser Davos intervenes, there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. He loved Stannis after all, he always knew he was the rightful king.

“Ser Davos,” Margaery starts off. “You were supposed to be the hand of the king — if Stannis were to be king.”

“Sadly, he never got to be.” He answers and Margaery remains silent.

“We did not mean to interrupt you my lady,” Jon starts off again, his eyes scanning the room as he realizes that Margaery had probably meant to take a nap before their intrusion. “I'm sure you've had a tiring, month long journey," he reverts his eyes back to her. "but I hope you know that your presence here... It complicates everything.”

“I understand that, and I never meant to intrude, it was just — I had nowhere else to go.”

“Why not back to Highgarden? You still have your grandmother there.”

“The Lannisters would have found me in a day. And my grandmother..." She pauses. There was a sadness that Jon saw in her eyes. The kind of sadness that Jon recognized... Being away from family.

"She doesn't know I'm alive. Perhaps it's better that way, at least for now.”

“What do you plan to do then? You're still the rightful queen. Are you going to take the iron throne back? Because if you are and you will need my men, I am sorry my lady but I can't—”

“With your permission," Margaery looks up, glancing at Ser Davos who had been next to Jon this entire time, "I'd rather speak about it with you in private, your grace.”

 

–

 

“What did she say?” Ser Davos asks once Jon had finally stepped out of Margaery's chamber.

“I promised to remain silent about it.”

Ser Davos became suspicious about this. “Forgive me, Jon but I don't feel entirely good about this. The Tyrells are just as dangerous as the Lannisters. They just tend to hide it better and act nice.”

“Margaery Tyrell is under my protection now, Ser Davos. You have to trust me on this.”

“I trust you, Jon. But I don't trust her. Do you?”

“I trust her enough.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

“How was she?”

“She's resting now.” 

“What did you tell her?”

“I just welcomed her—”

“What did she tell you?”

“ _ **Sansa**."_

Jon could almost hear Margaery's voice echoing in his head. Even with Sansa's interrogation loud enough for him to block out whatever it was spiralling in his thoughts. Regardless, his recent conversation with Margaery was still foremost in his mind.

 

\--

 

Margaery wasn't the queen anymore, that's how she looked at it. The moment the Sept of Baelor blew up into flames, all that her family had worked for turned to ash with it. Her month long journey to Winterfell made her contemplate on an abundance of things—family, power; how she has lost both—the former causing her great pain. But she hadn't lost them _entirely_. She still had a grandmother back in Highgarden. Probably still wearing clothes drenched in black — in mourning. If anything else, she wanted to see her grandmother the most. But she knew going back to Highgarden was not an option, especially if she were to journey alone. She was just lucky enough to have reached Winterfell without being recognized, but going down south that far from the north, Margaery wouldn't last. She might end up meeting Cersei instead. She made sure Jon knew all of this.

Other than that, Margaery didn't have a clue on where to proceed. Her mind was still in a daze. There was this uneasiness that Jon noticed when she narrated, as if still in trauma. It was obvious that she had never experienced anything that horrid. She looked so vulnerable. But Jon knew if Margaery were to stay, she might witness more horrid things. The long night. The army of the dead. Winterfell might not hold. He was getting distracted.

“I would hope that his grace would not let any of this reach others? Especially the news that I'm alive.”

“You have my word, my lady.” Jon smiles at her assuringly which was rewarded with Margaery's own.

“Have you told Sansa any of this? She's your friend after all—you just met me.” He got curious.

She felt agitated again at the mention of Sansa's name, it showed on her countenance. “I haven't... Not yet anyway.” It came out weak.

“You were a close friend of my sister back in King's Landing?”

 _A close friend_ , Margaery repeats in her head. That's a nice way to put it.

“Yes, we were close.” She puts a bit more conviction in her tone, but the anxious look remained.

Jon noticed this. It reminded him of how Sansa looked earlier that day when they were just talking about Margaery—how to approach the situation. Sansa had the same look on her face when all she could answer was _'I don't know'_.

It was like the two of them were attempting to hide something—at least to themselves, that was blatantly obvious. Jon was beginning to realize what he was stumbling on to, but he didn't want to assume, not just yet. He needed to know more. But at the same time, he couldn't trust Margaery entirely. He trusted her enough—enough to keep her in Winterfell. Jon wanted to believe that she was a good friend to Sansa—that her intentions were genuine; that she wasn't just using her for a bigger plot. His sister had been surrounded by the people who murdered their family growing up. If Margaery was that one person who had given her comfort during that difficult time, Jon would have been at ease about it, to say the least. However, what if Margaery was just like Cersei—but with a kind and charismatic facade to conceal it? All he could do at that moment was to observe, and keep his guard up for now. There was still much that he needed to know.

“I'm sure you haven't had a decent meal in a while. Supper will be ready soon. I'll let you rest for now.” He smiles. 

“Thank you, your grace.” She manages to say as Jon made his way to the door.

 

-

 

The King in the North was brought back to the events that were happening in front of him as he sat in the middle of the great hall, the younger sibling just standing behind the long table that separated them. Sansa was still waiting for a _decent_ answer to all her questions. With the way she was asking, all tensed and edgy—Jon's earlier assumption about the pair's _relationship_ seemed to become more and more real. _Friends don't act that way,_ he thought. He hoped, he really did—that Margaery was someone he could trust completely when it came to Sansa's feelings.

“She's our guest, Sansa.” He answers calmly, wanting to observe more of her reaction.

Sansa furrows her eyebrows at this, puzzled. “That's all you have to say?”

“Why don't you ask her yourself?”

“N-Not right now,” she stutters. “You just said she was resting.”

“Well...” Jon says whilst getting up from his seat. “You should probably let her know that supper's ready. I'm sure she's famished by now.”

Being alone with Margaery Tyrell _again_? Of course this made Sansa Stark all the more anxious. Their recent conversation seemed awkward enough, especially when Margaery called her _sweet girl_ by accident _._ Her little pet name. It was unexpected, but her heart had welcomed it entirely when it skipped a beat at the name. She missed Margaery. She missed those little walks in the garden, lemon cakes with lady Olenna, those times when Margaery held her hand assuringly wherever they went. Sansa wanted all of that. But who is to say that they were going to relive them? Margaery wanted power. It was something she was predisposed to at a young age for the welfare of her house, which Sansa understood. But it also meant that what they had was fleeting. Margaery was betrothed to Joffrey and told Sansa straight off that their _relationship_ cannot continue the night before the wedding.

Sansa wanted to understand. She tried. But she couldn't deny that it tore her apart. She knew that Margaery was a player in the game of thrones, but in the back of her mind she wanted to believe that she wasn't a pawn in her game—she wanted to believe that Margaery loved her too. She hated remembering everything; how Margaery spoke of taking her to Highgarden someday—specifically during the night of the harvest moon; how Sansa would've loved the costumes that the people worked on for months. She hated remembering the look on Margaery's eyes, eyes that seemed to make her believe that things might work out in the end for them someday. Because for Sansa it was all false hope. If Margaery hadn't wanted it, she might as well not have said anything or did anything, in fact. She should've just left Sansa Stark alone. Because all that was left since then was a broken heart.

Sansa wasn't quite ready to face all of that again—risking another heartache for a girl she thought she already gotten over. And she couldn't understand how fate could have concocted such an arrangement for them. Will things get better for the pair? Sansa didn't want to hope for it.

“Margaery...” the Stark girl knocked, her voice still sounding a bit shaky. She blamed it on the cold.

“Sansa?”

“Supper is ready.”

There was no response.

“Margaery?” _This was quite odd_ , she thought.

“I just—I think I need help with this.”

“With what?”

“The clothes.”

Sansa swallowed.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“Please do.”

The dress Margaery had on seemed a little too restricting. Rather than discovering a naked or half dressed Margaery, Sansa chuckled softly at the stiffness of her body—how awkward she looked. Sansa's anxiety started to disappear. Margaery's body had been covered entirely from neck to foot, and sleeves flowing to her wrists. It seemed like she could barely breathe. Sansa had never seen her in such clothing. Margaery's dresses were always revealing—sometimes a little _too_ revealing. She never thought she'd see the day Margaery would dress this way.

“Didn't realize you had really thick clothing for a reason.” Margaery started off. “The weather is more forgiving back in Highgarden.”

“I think it's just too tight on you.” Sansa replies, her smile more welcoming this time. The anxiety was completely gone by then as she was greeted by an awkward looking Margaery Tyrell in the most unflattering looking dress. “It's not your exact measurements... Maybe I have some dresses to spare for now that would fit you better.” Sansa smiled reassuringly.

The redhead returned with the outfits she had mentioned. Margaery tried each one until the third choice fitted her more comfortably than the others. It looked better on her than the others too.

However, Margaery still looked as if she was drowning in fabric, or perhaps Sansa just wasn't used to the look. It didn't seem like something Margaery would wear. Nevertheless, she still thought Margaery looked beautiful in it.

“Thank you for this, Sansa.” Margaery says softly

Sansa smiled at this as she was helping Margaery with the lace of her corset at the back. “It's just a dress.” She finally answers.

“It's more than just the dress...”

There was a rush of panic in Sansa's face when Margaery said this. It was a good thing the older female had her back to her so she couldn't see the anxiety that was evident on Sansa's features. What was she supposed to say? Sansa had the notion of where the conversation was heading, but still didn't know how to respond to it or what to respond, rather. The redhead hadn't realized that she was overthinking of what to answer back as she was lacing the corset, that by that time, there was nothing but complete silence between them.

Margaery, on the other hand, wanted to reach out to Sansa; probably start talking about everything that happened before. The little _'it's more than just the dress'_ thing sounded subtle enough. But she let the silence sit with them for a while, as she hadn't have anything to follow up her statement. She wanted to know how Sansa would react to this first, even when the redhead was behind her and couldn't possibly observe her through sight. She probably knew Sansa enough to memorize her behaviour by now, even if it's been years since they were last together. A part of her felt that Sansa didn't know how to respond this—maybe because she didn't how to feel about it first. And that alone spoke volume to Margaery.

It probably wasn't the right time to talk about such... and Margaery let the opportunity slip by.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm starting to have more free time so updates will be more frequent! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this fic. I swear--

The pair had not been alone as soon as Sansa's own handmaidens had greeted them at the door. Margaery was ready enough in her clothing to leave and everyone proceeded to the dining hall. There was still silence between Sansa and Margaery. Neither of them decided to speak up. Silence seemed good enough for now.

“There you are,” Jon greeted as his eyes met Sansa's. He stood a few feet away from them, the long table in between them under the dimmed yellow lighting of the candles. “I hope you have been able to rest after your long journey, Lady Margaery.” He continues, as soon as the handmaidens had left their presence.

The pair made their way to the dining table at this time, with Jon seated at the end and the two ladies sitting next to each other, perpendicular to him.

“I have, your grace.” Margaery smiles before smoothing her dress.

“Perhaps my sister lent dresses that fit you comfortably enough. It gets quite cold, especially now that winter is here.” He adds.

“I don't think you've ever worn anything like that before, I have to admit.” The younger Stark comments, attempting to lighten up the tension between them.

“I have...” Margaery answers, rather weakly, to Sansa's surprise.

Sansa appeared puzzled, recalling every single time she's been with Margaery. It was always the tight dresses of green and gold, sometimes pale blue. All of them either showcased the bareness of her arms, her back and at times in between her chest. Sansa wouldn't have thought that she had anything other than that in her wardrobe, and she knew that anything otherwise wasn't how Margaery liked to be dressed.

Margaery notices this, suddenly remembering that Sansa wasn't in King's Landing during the _reign_ of the High Sparrow; how she manipulated him into believing that she was devoted to the Faith of the Seven and had to dress accordingly to further convince him of her new found faith.

No, Sansa had not witnessed all of that; from Margaery's arrest to her supposed death. And that's how she wanted it to stay. Sansa shouldn't bother herself with it, Margaery thought. And besides, Sansa might not even care anymore.

“It's a long story...” She adds instead with a small smile, hoping to eradicate the confusion on Sansa's features—and to avoid the topic altogether.

But it didn't.

Especially with the way Margaery was trying to dismiss the subject, Sansa was convinced there was more to it than the dress alone; as if Margaery recalled a memory she had been repressing.

What else happened in the capital after she left? Sansa thought.

The redhead tried to dismiss the thought but it resurfaced through quiet moments during the meal. Dinner went rather well, with most of it in silence which Jon had noticed. Two friends wouldn't simply have sat in silence. He could remember how Sansa almost always behaved during feasts, even when he sat fare away. She usually enjoyed chatting with close friends. But tonight Jon felt this certain tension that he didn't quite understand yet; making such _assumptions_ would have been too soon to make.

After bidding their goodnights, Sansa and Margaery made their back to their chambers. This time, there were no handmaidens to go with them; making both ladies anxious in silence. Down the long hallway, Sansa's chambers would be the first stop before Margaery could reach her own. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but they both noticed how familiar the scenario was.

Back in King's Landing, whenever the pair spent the whole day together, Margaery always made sure to take Sansa to her chambers before going to hers; for the most part, it was to assure herself that the young Stark would arrive there safe—but it was also because, she wanted to steal a kiss or two as they were alone after Margaery had the chance to say goodnight.

Both ladies remembered this and the tension just got worse.

But Sansa was still curious; thoughts from earlier was still foremost on her mind. And what she was about to do would probably help forget the tension between them—at least for now.

“What was it?” Sansa starts off. Margaery looks up at her, puzzled. “I mean, about the dress.” Sansa adds, fixing her gaze at the older female. Margaery reverts her eyes back to their path, trying to maintain the soft smile on her lips.

“I told you, Sansa. It's a long story.”

“We have time.” Sansa assures; even though they both knew that time wasn't the issue. “It's rather a long walk after all.”

Margaery considers this. And even though years were spent without Sansa Stark, she still felt how hard it was to deny that girl anything. Like whenever Sansa begged for another five minutes in the gardens, another lemon cake, or another kiss. Truly—it was hard to deny that girl anything. Such feelings came back; feelings that Margaery kept hidden but never discarded.

“I was arrested.” she says bluntly.

Sansa's eyes widen at this, her expression obviously shocked.

“W-What?”

Margaery didn't think that Sansa even cared until she looked up once more to check Sansa's features again, making her expression soften even more.

“I was arrested—Loras and I. I lied for him during a trial... At that time, Cersei had imposed this power on the High Sparrow. Kings and queens weren't above the law to him and that's how I got arrested.”

Sansa listened intently to this, not even capable of imagining the situation that had happened entirely.

“I atoned for it by bringing Tommen into the fold, by getting involved with our faith. If I had not, I would have walked the streets naked until I reached the Red Keep. Thank the gods that didn't happen.” Margaery managed to chuckle at the end, but Sansa couldn't.

“And ever since then I tried to remain in his good graces; memorizing scripture, wearing dresses such as this. Until when...” Margaery looks up once more as she paused, “... you know.”

“I'm sorry...” Sansa managed to say.

Margaery could only smile. It was something she was getting over. The thought of her brother gone was an ache. She loved him, she tried to save him. But in the end, all that remained of him were ashes.

It wasn't too long until the pair finally reached Sansa's chambers. Margaery smiled up at her, a bit awkwardly; and Sansa did the same.

“Thank you—again.”

Sansa smiles softly at this. “You keep saying that.”

“Well, I don't think there's anything else to say.” Margaery lied.

'I have missed you' would have been a better replacement—and was the statement foremost on her mind.

“I suppose...” Sansa starts off, “I'll be seeing you in the morning.”

“And what would the lady of Winterfell have me do tomorrow?” Margaery answers; the question used as an attempt to lighten the mood.

The young Stark couldn't keep the grin to herself. The entire day might have been filled with tension but now that the two can start to have easy conversations meant something to Sansa, perhaps a new beginning. Gods, Sansa wanted to hope with all her heart, but she knew she couldn't.

“I do have _lady-of-Winterfell_ errands to tend to tomorrow—and part of that would be giving you a tour.”

“Me? A tour?” The older female chuckled.

“Mhm.” Sansa grins, almost childlike; like how Margaery had seen her years before—the naïve and innocent girl she loved so long ago. The sight made her heart swell enough that the thought of waking up the next day excited her.

“Very well then. I'm looking forward to that.” Margaery pauses,

“Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night, Margaery.”

The usual good night kiss from years ago came to mind for both women...

But neither dared.

Sansa proceeded inside the chamber, giving the older female one last smile—which was returned with Margaery's own, before closing the door between them. Margaery closed her eyes, picturing the way the Stark girl smiled at her just moments before. She wanted to keep that image in her heart for as long as she could.

Margaery loved her.

And Margaery loves her still.

“Lady Margaery!”

The voice startled her; immediately turning her head as to where it came from.

“Or should I say _Queen_ Margaery,” Littlefinger adds, approaching the younger female from the distance. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you.”

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Margaery attempts to make herself appear as composed as she could. But how could she? With the way the older man was curling his lips to a smirk as if a plot was beginning to unfold.

“ _Lady_ Margaery, if it pleases you.” She finally speaks, now her body faced to him.

“My deepest condolences,” he starts off once again, now standing directly in front of Margaery. “I cannot imagine what it must have felt like.” The darkness from behind him had illuminated with his dark cloak. It gave the impression that something dark was unravelling in his mind as well, Margaery thought. If only there was a way to leave his presence—for she had no interest in discovering what his plan would be. But she thought that it was already too late. All she could do was expose a sincere enough smile.

“Now if you'll excuse me, Lord Baelish. It's been a long day,” she insisted on proceeding, but it was a poor attempt. She might have never spent much time with the older man but she knew most certainly that it wouldn't be that easy to escape his clutches. He was going to get what he wanted one way or another.

“You and I both know that Cersei should be kept away from the throne as far as possible.”

“And why should I believe you?” She looks back, quite amused with what he had just shared. “I am aware of how you fooled every single person in the realm, so why should I be an exception?”

“Because I am very much invested in Sansa Stark—and having Cersei on the throne is detrimental to her life. I am sure that neither of us would want to see her hanged.”

“That's all it is to you, Lord Baelish. An _investment_.”

“Are you suggesting that you've never made... any _investments_ of your own?”

“Perhaps we have different definitions for it.”

“Do we?” He teases. “Indulge me.”

“Don't waste any more of my time... What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

She wanted him gone.

“You are the queen of the seven kingdoms. Protector of the realm—”

“I have not interest in being queen, Lord Baelish... Not anymore. Besides, I wouldn't be queen of the _seven_ kingdoms. Jon is king in the north, who shall deny him of that?”

“You can negotiate with him... As long as you rule separately, there wouldn't be any problem. Who do you think Jon would rather have on the iron throne? Cersei Lannister who had a role in the deaths of the Stark family,” he makes his way closer to her. The hallway seemed darker than it originally was before she was bewildered with his presence. “Or Margaery Tyrell, the one who saved his sister from marrying Joffrey Baratheon?”

“I am in no position to assume what his grace would want. Why don't you ask him—since you seem to have taken such an interest in me. Because, isn't that what you always do? You always take advantage of other people's circumstances.”

“I'm sure if you'll let me speak, you would want to go back.”

She had the upper hand, as she had hoped the conversation would flow. Margaery huffed in satisfaction, finally turning to deface him and started to move opposite him before she answered, “There's nothing left for me in King's Landing.”

“I wasn't talking about King's Landing.” Littlefinger protests, a smirk almost visible in his tone even though Margaery couldn't see the look on his face.

She paused with an expression that was utterly confused... Until it dawned on her.

Highgarden.

Her grandmother.

The initial reaction was panic—then fear. But what resonated with her was the disgust that Littlefinger might win the conversation. The certain victory on his part made her feel inferior, and she saw it with the subtle smirk on his lips as she turned her head to look at him; as if he already knew that she was going to give in and Margaery didn't want that.

“What do you know?”

“Best we speak about this outside. Wouldn't want to disturb Sansa Stark's sleep now, would we?”

Margaery had no choice but to nod; and with that contented smirk on his lips, Littlefinger guided the younger female outside of the grandiose fortress. The cold air started to seep through Margaery's skin, even the dress that Sansa lent her wasn't enough to keep her warm. But even in the chill, all that raced through her mind was her grandmother. Was she dead? Margaery felt unsettled with the idea. If that were the case, then she had truly lost everything. And for what?

The pair had reached the outside. It was dark and it was snowing. Some towers were still lit with candles while the others remained dark. It would be time for everyone get settled in for the night, and as Margaery had hoped she would finally be getting her proper rest, she feared of what Littlefinger might say next. That proper rest didn't seem probable anymore.

“What about my grandmother?” She faces him. Silence was a luxury she couldn't afford at this point.

“I have word that the Lannister forces are planning to sack Highgarden—they would be there in a month or two. Lady Olenna... I fear for her life.”

Margaery felt relieved somehow knowing that her grandmother wasn't dead.

“If you were to march down south to Highgarden, you could save your grandmother and everyone will know you're alive. You'll have the support of the noble houses since you are the true queen. You'll outnumber the Lannisters and the throne is yours... Do nothing, and you'll lose the only family you have left.”

Was marching down south the only possible way? Margaery thought that it might be. Sending a raven would do no good as the scroll might end up in the wrong hands. The wrong people might find out that she was taking refuge in Winterfell. If they didn't have a reason to march up north, finding out information that Margaery was still alive would be good enough reason to.

“Why are you concerned of having me on the iron throne?” She couldn't help but ask.

“As what I've said, Cersei is a threat to Sansa Stark... And I know that the both of us wouldn't want to see her get hurt.”

Margaery was confused more than ever and the cold was starting to get to her. The savvy in her had probably blown up in the Sept too. As much as she feared to admit, the politically calculated Margaery Tyrell had died in that Sept a month ago. All that remained was a vulnerable, pained girl—one she never got the chance to be. She had not a clue on how to respond or what to do. She always clutched to power—or to someone who had it. That was what House Tyrell was an expert at. They stayed close to power. It was their way for their house to bloom, like a rose. But what if power was scattered? And this time there were actual risks. Her grandmother. The Tyrells rarely gambled on anything, and this time Margaery was considering that probably a gamble was the only choice left. But still, she was completely nonplussed. There had to be another way, she thought.

“I'll give you the evening to think on how you'll proceed.” Littlefinger added before he disappeared into the darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a few weeks, but I've finally decided on how this will all go down. Let me know your thoughts! And thank you for being patient with me. I know updates are slow--with all of my fics, really. And I just want to thank every single one of you who gave this a kudos and have sent their comments. I read every single one of them and I couldn't be more thankful. Please pray that I get to update this again soon. My writer's block gets in the way.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Margaery barely had a decent sleep. It was as if her nights on the road gave her better ones than what she had the night before. Petyr's words spun around in her head all the same, if not, they rattled her mind all the more. Even with a blank face staring up at the ceiling, her face seemed calm but her thoughts were another thing.

She had no control over the situation, unlike when circumstances were more favourable back then as queen. When she had the crown and when she had her family, scheming was an easy thing. But with the crown gone and her family almost the same, she had nothing. Underneath being queen of the seven kingdoms, or the Tyrell rose who had worked her way up to be one, who was Margaery Tyrell? Even she couldn't answer it. She feared that ambition had change her so, that the little girl who had grown up in Highgarden had been completely renewed by now. But she missed her father, and Loras even more, that she knew deep down she hadn't completely lost herself from lusting over the crown; and if she did, it was for her house.

But all the same, she felt trapped—vulnerable. She was terrified. It was one of the first when she had felt tremendous fear. Her grandmother would be the last in her family who have remained living, and yet she had no idea that Margaery was alive. And all Margaery could think of was how she wanted to see the look on her grandmother's face when she sees her breathing and well. Margaery could only hope. But with what Littlefinger had presented the night before, maybe it could happen. Just maybe.

There was a knock on her door early that morning and Sansa had not been far from her thoughts even as her mind drifted off back to Highgarden, to Olenna. Margaery stood, finally awoken from her daytime dreaming and saw the Stark girl waiting just outside.

“Good morning,” Sansa beamed, grinning the way she used to whenever she saw Margaery years ago. The hint of youth was still glimmering in her eyes. The older female remembered all their sweet encounters that happened in King's Landing like it was only yesterday. But as heart warming as the smile on Sansa's lips were, Margaery still seemed confused.

“Good morning, Sansa,” she starts off. Sansa notices that Margaery was still painfully under dressed, as if still oblivious to the day's events and Sansa had already understood that Margaery probably forgot, which was unlike her. Or perhaps wasn't just interested in her anymore after all and it hurt Sansa's pride a little.

“I promised you last night,” She decided to put it plainly, “to give you a tour around Winterfell, remember?”

“Right, yes yes. Forgive me.” Margaery managed to chuckle, but embarrassed deep down that it had actually slipped her mind. “I haven't gotten ready.” She smiled apologetically.

“I think I slept so well that I'm still in a daze this morning.” Margaery wondered how the lie could have slipped easily out of her lips. Even with the abundance of them that she had to say to those around her, lying to Sansa Stark always equated to a load of guilt in her heart. Sansa's eyes didn't seem convinced of Margaery's so called good night's rest. But all Margaery could do was hope that it was enough.

“I'll let you get ready first. I'll wait out here.”

“Yes, just a moment.”

 

* * *

 

If Margaery hadn't known any better, Sansa was born for this—ruling. She would have been a better queen if the Tyrells had not helped the Lannister forces defeat Stannis Baratheon. But Sansa was merely a child back then and things would have turned out differently if she and Sansa were never to meet. Even as hypothetical as it was, the idea made Margaery's chest ache. She possibly couldn't miss the opportunity of a lifetime to meet Sansa Stark. But Margaery thought of the gods, if they ever existed, to have their mercy fall upon her at that moment. That regardless of everything that had happened so far in her life, even if they had snatched Loras so soon—too soon, Sansa was here. She was there to remind her that hope can remain. And as little as the redhead probably knew, she was the angel that Margaery needed, even if Sansa thought otherwise.

The girl Margaery had never gotten over seemed to be oblivious to all that ran through her mind as they stood within the walls of Winterfell, watching the snow fall and watching Sansa from her peripheral talking to the gentlemen surrounding them. The weather was the same as she arrived, if not, colder—if that was even possible, to Margaery's mind. It wasn't entirely the tour that Margaery expected, not even Sansa. As the pair had walked earlier, Sansa explaining which tower was which they had been interrupted by Lord Royce, Maester Wolkan and Petyr Baelish. This was what Sansa meant when she said last night that there were Lady-of-Winter-business she had to attend to.

Sansa stood there and conversed with all the confidence in the world being the lady of Winterfell, executing her duties, that it made Margaery feel so small—as if their roles had reversed. Margaery wondered for a moment if this is what Sansa felt like back in King's Landing; feeling all invisible and insignificant in her presence, as she felt now in Sansa's as she was inquiring Lord Royce and Maester Wolkan if Winterfell would hold for the entirety of the season, asking of when was the longest winter in the past one hundred years, which the Maester Wolkan still had to check for he did not know.

Sansa grew up into a beautiful woman since the older girl had last seen her. And Margaery felt something, like a sense of pride and satisfaction that Sansa was doing better than ever. But it pained Margaery all the same as she suddenly thought, perhaps Sansa's growth had nothing to do with her. And she wished she had seen her grown, seen her bloom into the rose that she was today. But no, Sansa was no rose, she was a wolf, and that explained the nervous looks on the maester's features when he could not bring himself to answer what Sansa was requiring him. Margaery could already tell that Sansa was taking mental notes on the matters that further needed to be dealt with when both the Maester and Lord Royce could not give sufficient answers to her questions.

Littlefinger was amongst them but said nothing and Margaery felt her heart race as he stared at her when Sansa seemed too immersed in the conversation to even notice. Margaery hoped he would've forgotten the conversation from last night. But he was waiting for a response on how she will proceed but she ought not to decide from emotion alone, but she didn't have anything else other than emotion—not her family and most certainly not the crown, but Sansa... she had Sansa. And for a moment that seemed to sit well enough with her that she was the first to glance away when Petyr stared at her. He would not ruin this day for her. Even if it was just for today.

As Sansa dismissed all three of them, just her and Margaery once more, she caught a glimpse of uneasiness in the older female's expression yet it faded when Sansa checked again but she couldn't help but ask.

“Are you alright?”

Margaery blinked but a smile followed. “Yes, _lady_ Sansa.”

Sansa snorted at the title but she spent enough time around Margaery to know whether her smile was real or fake. And this time it was fake—only because she was trying to hide something.

 

* * *

 

“It's all white.”

“Only because it's winter. It's not the same during summer.”

Margaery and Sansa stood by the walls of the great fortress which was a 100 feet drop to the snow if they dared tried to jump—which Sansa had already done with Theon quite some time ago. It overlooked the Kingsroad where, if they went straight ahead, would be reaching down south and neither girls wanted that. Well, most certainly Sansa didn't want that. But Margaery on the other hand, she was second guessing.

Little had been said between them throughout the day and even if Margaery had only arrived the day before, Sansa was getting a bit tired of the small talk. Not that she had wanted to discuss anything that had transpired and ultimately faded between them, but Sansa knew if Margaery were to stay for long, beating around the bush would not do them good in the long run even if they were just to co-exist. But luckily, Sansa didn't have to commence the conversation. Perhaps telepathy was still their thing.

“Did you come back here?” Margaery started. “After the wedding, did you come back here? I didn't know where you had gone.”

“No...”

“What happened?”

“Lord Baelish smuggled me to the Vale then brought me here soon after. But Margaery... I had nothing... I didn't—I had no idea.”

Of course she didn't, Margaery thought. Her grandmother knew that Joffrey was going to die on their wedding day. As Olenna had said once, _you didn't think I'd let you marry that beast, do you?_ Sansa was a pawn at that moment, Margaery hated to admit. That maybe perhaps, if Margaery knew of her grandmother's plans prior, she would not have treated Sansa the way that she did the night before the wedding. She would rather have kept the girl in her arms until sunrise, until she had to say goodbye to her and she was probably even capable of bringing a knife to Joffrey's neck if he had swept her away from Sansa so soon before the wedding. But no, she had not anticipated the events of that day; that Joffrey would be dead and Sansa gone. All the more that she realized she underestimated her situation entirely and she regretted later that Olenna did not inform her.

“A lot has happened since then.” Margaery answered.

“Yes, a lot had happened.” Sansa nodded.

“I feel like we're completely different people now.” Margaery admitted, looking Sansa's way. The younger girl saw this from her peripheral but she continued to watch the snow, not that didn't want to look at Margaery but she couldn't handle the soft look she was giving her; because she was absolutely sure she would melt from it.

“Are we? Are we completely different?” She asks instead.

“I hope not.” Margaery sighed.

“I still thought of you... Quite often...” Sansa declared almost bashfully, like the way she used to speak back when she was in King's Landing, when she was younger. Margaery's heart started to swell and she was so close to have herself convinced that leaping into the young Stark's arms would be a good idea but Sansa continued, “... I mean—I only meant that what would have happened to you then—now that Joffrey was dead.” And Margaery felt herself hold back, but her heart still swelling just as much.

“I'm just surprised enough to know that you still thought of me.”

 _How could I not?_ Sansa wanted to say, but didn't.

“But at least you got to leave that place... Away from those horrible people.” Margaery adds.

“I moved on to other horrible people.”

Margaery furrows her eyebrows and Sansa stares back at her.

“The Boltons.” Sansa thought it would make Margaery less confused but to her surprise, she seemed more puzzled than earlier.

“The Boltons?” Margaery asks.

“My marriage to Ramsay?”

“I... I did not know of it.” Margaery felt disappointed in herself for not knowing; maybe Tommen had even mentioned it or even Cersei but she didn't remember, but then immediately thought that this might have occurred during her arrest but she was puzzled just the same.

“Nevermind then.” Sansa tried to smile the confusion out of Margaery's features. “Come, there's another place in the castle I want to show you.”

There wasn't really, but Sansa wanted to distract Margaery, wanted her to forget what they had just spoken of as she started to walk away but Margaery wasn't so easily deterred.

“Sansa,” she was able to grab Sansa's arm to face her again as her confused look transformed into one more filled with concern. “This Ramsay, what did he do to you?”

Sansa glanced at the hand that grabbed her then looked up at Margaery. She faked her smile, she really did. She wanted to conceal what she felt, of not wanting to remember the man, not wanting Margaery to know what she had felt, what she had endured; for it didn't matter. Not anymore.

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

And with that, Margaery already knew.

“Sansa, I'm sorry...”

“He's dead... Don't be sorry.”

“We went through different ordeals, and I'm sorry for I have not known yours.”

“I was imprisoned too, just as you were—” Margaery's expression softened at Sansa's words. “—varying in description, perhaps, but entirely same in context... So, no. We're not completely different, Margaery.” Sansa managed to smile.

Margaery loosened her grip on the girl's arm as she mindlessly lowered it to grab Sansa's hand, squeezing it reassuringly. And Margaery knew that Sansa didn't mind when she squeezed back. She wanted to hate herself. How could Sansa Stark, the one who had probably suffered the most pain since her childhood had been so kind to her in that moment? That she who had welcomed her into her home and had protected her could let go of all the hurt—of all the pain? She had endured it most from the Lannisters, and Margaery was meant to be the last to have inflicted such on her considering the _nature_ of their relationship years ago. And yet what did she do? She broke her heart. If Margaery had felt sorrowful everyday for what she did, she felt it all the more at that moment when Sansa had smiled at her all so sweetly as if the years they were apart melted away.

This was the angel Margaery had been graced with, whom she had ultimately failed in the end.

Margaery could never forgive herself for it.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think it's really Tyrion? It might be someone luring you into a trap.”

“Read the last bit.”

_All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes._

“What does that mean?”

“Something he told me on the first night we met.”

“I received it a few days ago. We never really had the time to discuss until now. You know him better than all of us. What do you think?”

Margaery had long retreated to her chambers when Sansa was summoned by Jon to speak with her. Apparently it was about the letter he received from Dragonstone, the one he had held on for two days at least. But Sansa seemed rather distracted for Jon to have brought it up sooner.

“Tyrion is not like the other Lannisters. He was always kind to me. But it's too great a risk.”

Jon knew this, but he was all the more threatened by the Night King who could be marching down south any time soon. The King knew they needed allies if they were meant to survive and Daenerys seemed the only plausible ally and Cersei was definitely out of his options, at least for now.

 

 

 

 


End file.
